by Tim Lebbon
“Still tied up, John?” Deputy Tate asks.
He’s younger than she is, broad-shouldered and fit, with short, sandy hair. The shadows cast by a lamp’s bare bulb give the cramped space a vaguely noir feel, so I almost expect him to sound like Bogart, but he doesn’t. Not looking up, his lips curl.
“Yeah, but I’m dying for a different kind of tie-up with you, Miss Velvet.”
I cough. He sputters. “Oh. I... You... Agent Scully?”
“Did my clothes give it away?”
He motions me in. “Thank-you, uh, Deputy Tate. That’ll be all.”
Miss Velvet curtsies and leaves.
“That must’ve sounded bad.”
With Mulder at risk, I don’t make an issue. “I’m sure you’re used to talking informally in a small office.”
He tosses his pen on the table. “Small, stretched, and stressed. There’s enough press to make the sewers back up if they all take a piss. And in about an hour, I’m giving my first national press conference, during which I’ll be expected to explain how I’m gonna handle over eighty sightings. Frankly, I have no idea.”
“Are you getting support from other jurisdictions?
“For the people who brought you the Lizard Man? They’re laughing their asses off. Besides, without a crime, what are they supposed to do? Allot overtime to search for a big-headed squirrel? If I said the FBI was here, they might, but you asked me not to.”
Because with the conspiracy operating in the Bureau, I’d rather word didn’t get out until I know what’s going on.
“I appreciate the cooperation. No sign of Agent Mulder, I assume?”
“Nope. He’s not the sort to go traipsing off into a swamp on his own, is he?”
“I don’t know if traipse is the right word, but... yes. Aside from the charger, did he say anything at all?”
“Just that he was here to see a man about an alien. I took it as a way of telling me to mind my own business, at least before that CNN video. Now... Agent, between you, me, and the wall, does the FBI think this shit is real?”
“The FBI definitely does not. Agent Mulder... not lately.”
He raises an eyebrow. “And you?”
“Well...” I clear my throat. “A visiting extraterrestrial isn’t a theory I’d embrace without compelling evidence, and as of now, there isn’t any... is there?
He waves a dismissive hand. “Looks to me like tall tales, wobbly video and blurry pictures taken by drunk high schoolers who’d rather get on TV than graduate. But I’m no expert.”
“May I?”
His eyes light up. “Do you one better. Cut that pile in half before my conference and first thing tomorrow, and I’ll free up two deputies to help find your partner.”
It’s already dark. Not being the type to traipse off into the swamp, I agree.
Already familiar with the two incidents that brought Mulder here, I’m thinking this more recent slew should be as easy to dismiss. Even in mundane circumstances, eyewitnesses are notoriously unreliable. William James once said belief creates fact. More accurately, expectation can alter perception. Take a white light for a spaceship and that becomes the memory.
Not that reconstructing the truth is impossible, but you have to earn it. It helps to realize that the paranormal has habits. Before 1977’s Close Encounters of the Third Kind, alien descriptions varied wildly. After, short, baby-headed, big-eyed Grays became the norm. As expected, these reports fit Spielberg’s archetype almost to a tee. There is, however, one fairly consistent difference.
“Half these people say they’re seeing something six to eight feet tall. I’m surprised no one’s claimed the Lizard Man is back.”
The sheriff rises and looks over my shoulder, the way Mulder sometimes does. “Around here, that’s the quickest way to get called a liar. I figure most are seeing something. I’ve heard of mangy bears with wounded paws forced to walk on their hind legs. That’d look six feet, and they can climb.”
“That doesn’t explain the wild leaps in sixteen of the reports.”
I imagine Mulder’s reaction: Maybe the gravity on its home-world is heavier. Like the astronauts jumping on the moon.
The dozen photos and three videos take a few more minutes. With Quinlan watching, I rattle off what earmarks the fakes: “Perspective off. Shadows out of place. Squirrel. Color inconsistent. Someone in a mask. Squirrel. Tree stump. Papier-mâché on wires. And this... this is someone with tin foil around their head, eating a sandwich.”
As I recite the old reasons, spot the same old problems, again, I hear Mulder:
But, Scully, how do you explain...?
Only this time, I can’t imagine how he’d end the sentence. I do know that even when his questions confirmed my opinion, they forced me to look again. Alone, I have to make sure I don’t miss anything important because it strikes me as stupid.
Wouldn’t want to miss the truth for aesthetic reasons.
As the sheriff points to the final fuzzy image, his arm rubs against mine. “That one had me going.”
“It can be anything.”
“But if it can be anything, how can you be sure it’s not something?”
I squint. “I can’t, but it’s useless as evidence. People see patterns everywhere. It’s in our nature to perceive vague stimuli as significant—a process called pareidolia. Arguably, we evolved to see things that aren’t there as a survival mechanism.”
The room is small. We’re examining the same photo, but when Quinlan turns his head toward me, I realize how close he is.
“How can hallucinating help you survive?”
I move back a half step. “Not exactly hallucinating, more like the brain guessing. Say you see what might be a tiger in the brush. Sometimes it’s a tiger, sometimes not, but if your brain always insists it is a tiger, you’re more inclined to run. Over time, you have a better chance of surviving and passing on that trait.” Personal space varies between cultures, but the distance between us is still uncomfortable. I shift a few more inches away. “So... not only are we geared to see things that aren’t there, we’re geared to assume they want to eat us.”
In my mind, Mulder says, Funny, Scully, whenever I seen an indistinct figure in the dark, I walk toward it.
All the more reason to worry, but the thought makes me take that second look. I do see the sheriff’s point. A shape haunts the blur. From the neck down, it’s human, or, as Mulder might say, humanoid, but the head is wrong, so wrong, it’s easy to dismiss as noise.
But does that mean I should?
The sheriff’s nonchalant nod brings his head closer. “Interesting how much of this paranormal stuff is really about who we are, y’know? Today, I was reading how the whole alien abduction story is like a bondage fantasy. You’re tied down, poked, prodded, usually in a sexual way. Maybe people who feel like they have to be in control all the time, like us, tend to fantasize about not being in control.”
Having been effectively raped and impregnated by my abductors, the notion of bondage as an erotic role-playing game is as alien to me as, well... aliens. I debate whether I should tell him the more compelling theory, that the abductions are part of a military experiment, and a horrid crime against humanity.
Instead, I say, “I’ve heard that.”
“Be tough to find a motel tonight...”
“I’m sure I’ll be fine.”
Thankfully, I’m done. The stack of material I’ve dismissed is huge. What’s left, surprisingly, is more than nothing. I place the last photo on the smaller pile, scoop it up and turn to leave. “Time for your conference isn’t it, Sheriff? I’ll see you in the morning if I haven’t found Agent Mulder by then.”
With a smile, Quinlan gets out of my way.
I don’t know how long Deputy Tate’s been at the door, but her gruff manner makes me think she was listening in. Hurriedly, she escorts me to a backdoor and out into a trash-filled alley.
“So you can avoid the press.” The steel fire door slams.
Other t
han the smell, I appreciate the gesture. The sky above the front of the building is scarred with fake daylight. I hear the bored reporters chatting idly, but then a wave of quiet rolls through them. Sherriff Quinlan’s first press conference is starting.
“An expert review has concluded absolutely that the vast majority of these reports...”
Concluded absolutely makes me wince. Despite popular belief, science operates primarily on inductive reasoning, which deals in probability, not absolutes. Science can’t conclude absolutely that the sun will rise tomorrow. It can only say sunrise is extremely likely, and that there’s no known reason to believe it won’t happen. It’s misunderstandings like this that can give science a bad name.
How one reaches these imperfect conclusions is another question. A good scientist looks at the evidence and then forms a theory. The uninformed might think my partner does the opposite, forming theories based on emotion, on what he wants to believe. True, emotion provides the energy, but Mulder’s suppositions are born from intuition, an innate ability to understand a situation immediately—or at least to believe he does.
I don’t dismiss intuition. In 1865, Friedrich Kekulé day-dreamed about a snake biting its own tale, and so discovered the ring-shape of the Benzene molecule. Yet, exhilarating as an instinctive leap might be, landing somewhere unexpected can leave you lost. At least my more methodical approach allows me to go back to square one.
To that end, my next stop is the Inn or Out? Rather than risk being asked if I’m Will Smith or Tommy Lee Jones, I decide to head the back way. The small cemetery across from the sheriff’s office is soothing. The large abandoned building beyond it, less so. But before my mind can conjure any tigers in the gloom, the motel parking lot comes into view.
I avoid mentioning the FBI, saying Mulder is a missing friend. The owner, Peggy White, lit cigarette dangling, a curl of smoke splitting her unfriendly face, is less than helpful. A day with the media has taught her how easily information can be converted to cash.
A little girl, Maggie, five or six, mutely clutches her side. She moves only to avoid the lit cigarette when her mother swings her arm. There’s a dullness in her eyes, a fear-reaction from all the strangers in town. When I smile at her, she smiles back.
Though I didn’t intend to be manipulative, Peggy softens, admitting she remembers Mulder. “Didn’t like his look. Checked in, left after a few hours, now he owes me. That’s all.”
Maggie’s pretty face and lanky body remind me of Samantha, the sister Mulder lost as a child. If he saw the same resemblance, maybe he spoke to her. Not only does she not remember him; Peggy, no longer trusting my intentions, sends her off to watch TV.
It’s only when I pay Mulder’s bill that she lets me into the dingy room.
It smells of both mold and bleach. At first glance, there’s nothing here other than his half-open suitcase. A closer look will take time, but Peggy won’t have it. When I ask for an hour, she laughs. “That’s as funny as a three-legged dog in a horse race.” She pats the wobbling door. “You’re looking at the last available room for fifty miles. A ton of sleepy reporters with expense accounts will be falling over each other to pay six times my usual rate. And if I tell them the previous occupant has mysteriously vanished...”
“I never said it was mysterious.”
“Guess I’m a better storyteller then you are, then.”
I argue that the room is a potential crime scene. I threaten to call the sheriff. In response, she spits a bit of filter onto the carpet. I consider taking Mulder’s things and spending the night in my rental car, but he may have left some clue behind. We settle on three times her “usual rate.” I hope Skinner accepts the charge when I file my expense report.
I’d asked for an hour to search, but spend two. The only thing I find gives me too much of the wrong kind of information. Curled in a rusted wastebasket by the desk is one of Mulder’s porno magazines. Heavier stock pokes from the center.
But he probably already has a subscription.
Fortunately, the outlets work, so I plug in my laptop, curl up on the over-bleached sheets, and stare at the blurry photo from the sheriff’s office. I see a face, then a bunny rabbit, then a fairly clear image of our 26th president, Teddy Roosevelt.
I am asleep in minutes.
I don’t know how long I’m out before a sound makes me open my eyes a slit. My room, Mulder’s room, is dark, but I don’t recall turning off the lights. I’ve no idea what made the sound, a slamming car door, a bottle tossed in a garbage can, or the pop of settling support beams. I’m under the blankets, head on a pillow, smelling bleach and dank air, but I don’t even remember getting undressed.
And again, someone is there with me, again, all in shadow.
He’s over by the pressboard desk, beside the wastebasket and tilted standing lamp. He’s not Mulder or my father, though he looks, in turns, like both. He’s taller, thicker. There are curves above his shoulders. I assume it’s the drapes, but they suggest large wings. I’m not afraid. If anything, I barely feel like I’m in the room, as if my body is something I’m imagining.
Almost idly, a question comes to mind: Who are you?
Likewise in my mind, an answer appears: Uriel.
I know the name. Uriel’s an archangel, the one God sent to block Eden’s gates after the fall, to prevent humanity from ever reentering paradise. He’s a cherub. Not the cute pudgy type on Valentine’s Day cards—the fierce sort that battles fallen angels with a huge flaming sword.
But I’m still not afraid.
What do you want?
The room remains undisturbed by sound, while in my mind he speaks louder and deeper than my own inner voice: Leap. Or he’ll die.
Then it’s over.
I’m awake. Really awake. The lights are on, as I left them. I’m on top of the bedspread, next to the blurry photo and my laptop. My side aches from having slept in the odd position.
I assume I’ve experienced hypnagogia. Awake, the brain responds to external stimuli—reality—asleep, to internal stimuli—dream. Chemicals paralyze the body so we don’t act out those dreams. In threshold states, however, the stimuli mix, producing vivid hallucinations. Dark figures in bedrooms are common. So, for some reason, are flying dogs.
It wasn’t real, but at the same time, Kekulé dreamt a real molecule’s shape. At any given time, we’re aware of only a small percentage of our brain’s processes. Not believing that an archangel manifested in a crappy motel room doesn’t mean refusing to accept the possibility I was trying to tell myself something.
I reexamine the spot where Uriel stood. The desk drawers remain empty. I pull each out, look underneath and along the sides. Nothing. The floor has only dust bunnies. The porno mag remains alone in the trash.
Or does it?
I take it out. The shells of a few sunflower seeds tumble from its pages. I look again at the heavier rectangle in the center. It’s not a subscription card; it’s the back of a memo pad. Mulder must have used it as a bookmark.
Aware that my partner’s obsession has left him with a solitary life, I try not to question his private habits too closely. At the same time, I have to ask, do you really need to keep your place when reading a review of A Decade of Dirty Delinquents?
The cardboard seems blank, but intuition brought me this far and I’m not willing to give up yet. Using an old trick I first saw on TV, I rub a pencil against the surface. It works. Two words, scrawled in Mulder’s familiar hand, appear: SWAMP SHACK.
There are numbers, too, coordinates.
Remembering the GPS in the glove compartment of my rental car, I head out to retrieve it. In the quaint graveyard, I nearly trip over some empty beer cans and a broken Ouija board. The board reminds me of a George Carlin joke: “Tell people there’s an invisible man in the sky who created the universe, and the vast majority believe you. Tell them the paint is wet, and they have to touch it to be sure.”
He was wrong. They want to touch the invisible, too.
The
glow from the press is gone. The main street is empty save for a lone SUV from the sheriff’s office, slowly cruising the other end of the short town. Beyond it, a mustard-colored streak spreads along the bottom of the sky. The sun is rising, fulfilling expectation.
I reach my car without incident. The GPS puts the location six miles into Scape Ore Swamp. No roads visible, I can’t get there from here, not without help. I tell myself there’s no time to waste, but it’s a theory of convenience. Mulder may be fine, or already dead. I grab my phone to wake Quinlan, but as I dial, the SUV pulls up.
Miss Velvet is at the wheel. A pimple-faced male deputy rides shotgun.
“Any luck?” she asks, friendly enough. I show her the coordinates. “Could be worse. Could be ten miles in instead of six. Things are quieter, most everyone’s finally asleep. You want, we’ll take you out there now.” She looks at my shoes. “Got extra snake-waders in the trunk. I’ll radio the troopers to keep an evac helicopter on standby, just in case.”
Hoping Mulder wore more than his shoes, I climb in. Mark Hickmon, a fair-haired twenty-something, introduces himself and pours me some coffee from a Thermos.
“You said finally asleep. What did I miss?”
Hickmon’s red eyes open a little wider. “It was quiet until around one. Then, out of nowhere, we get like ten calls, sightings. Sheriff mapped ’em as they came in. We think the thing came in from the southwest, around Al’s Topiary Garden, jumped through the fields, climbed up the roof of an abandoned warehouse right where the streetlights start, then turned tail and hopped back the way it came.”
Using his hand to illustrate the leaps, he almost spills coffee on Tate, earning a light slap.
“Did anyone photograph it?”
Hickmon shakes his head. “It was all over in about ten minutes. One of those TV action crews chased after it, but got nothing. Lots of witnesses, but the sheriff said you don’t think much of them. Me, I don’t see how so many people can be lying.”
“I never said they were lying, only that they didn’t necessarily understand what they were seeing. If it’s not a misidentified animal, it could be a hoax.”
